


Everything Is Grey

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Violence, Incest, M/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8563177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: Father thought, and still believes that Sirius is free. Sirius is just as tethered to the curse of this damned name as the rest of them are, and when he reaches for Regulus it is with the desperate desire to cast off that burden.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt #:** M44 Prompt: A blunt and honest family portrait
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mentions of domestic violence, incest, and physical abuse against a child (non-sexual), AU Magical
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Not mine, just playing in the sandbox.
> 
>  **A/N:** Short, and not what I originally intended.

_Everything is grey_

The walls, the carpets, the curtains--even the sky beyond the window, and the murky London streets--all of it the most depressing shade of grey.

“They’re ready for us,” Mother’s tone is sombre, subdued as if she wasn’t screaming herself hoarse the night before. Regulus’s long fingers clench against the cold glass of his window, the pane takes his warmth--drawing it across the glossy surface, to halo around his fingers and palm like a thin white veil. “Regulus,” Mother calls, as close as she ever gets to pleading with her sons. He smears his hand through the condensation before he turns away from the easily forgot imagery that lives beyond this fortress of a house--a place that feels less and less of a home.

Father’s hair is neatly arranged, shiny and slick looking from his preferred pommade, and he picks invisible lint from his dark trousers before he crosses his ankle over his knee. His signet ring glinting in the bright glow of the thousand candles that burn above them, as he wraps his palm over the silver head of his cane. Mother goes to sit beside him, her midnight curls shining as they bounce off her exposed, pale shoulders. The crimson lacquer on her sharp nails, pristine, perfectly glossy, and vibrant where they rest against Father’s arm. Her mouth is no less bright, and her teeth seem unnaturally white when she wears her best smile. Both his parents a far cry from the reckless mess they became as they thundered through the halls the previous night. Though this is nothing new; they’ve grown accustomed to hiding their chaos.

“Stand with your brother,” Father directs when Regulus watches this unusual display, a frown threatening to break Father’s practiced facade and Regulus hurries to do as told. Father is never kind when he’s made to look anything less than perfect while in the presence of outsiders.

Sirius doesn’t give a hint of acknowledgment when Regulus steps beside him; behind the brocade sofa their parents are perched upon. With a bored expression Sirius stares straight ahead, at the place where the odd little man is puttering about setting up his supplies, and Regulus admires his brother’s profile from the corner of his eye. Sirius’s long hair is pulled back, held together with a thin velvet ribbon, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the perfectly straight slope of his nose. His lips seem fuller when not hidden by the curtain of his hair, and Regulus flushes when he lifts his gaze to Sirius’s grey eye--only to find that Sirius is watching him from the corner of his own eye. Smirk blooming, Sirius appears more gentle and more dangerous simultaneously.

“You’d better not ruin the portrait, Sirius,” Father warns when the painter’s squeaky voice informs that he’s ready.

“It was ruined before it was created,” Sirius whispers, low enough for Regulus to catch. “Just like we were,” his long fingers reach for Regulus’s pocket--slipping within it, and Sirius remains aloof as he stares ahead. Unworried because the motions are hidden behind the back of the sofa; though, Regulus is willing to bet his portion of the family fortune that Sirius would touch him that way even if he were in plain view.

“What was that,” Father’s tone is dangerous, but sounds polite enough to the untrained ear.

“Nothing, Father,” Sirius smiles, delighted in the prospect of invoking Father’s ire. Regulus trembles, and a soothing hand reaches around to the centre of his lower back--rubbing gentle circles against his flesh. “Shh,” Sirius whispers, leaning closer despite Father’s earlier warning. 

_What I hide God cannot heal_

When the sky has turned dark, and the lamps glow in the streets, the portrait painter pronounces the work finished. Regulus frowns at the image he sees. It is pretty enough, swirls of colour more vibrant than any Black could be, but it is a lie.

Mother appears too happy, too in love, and the oils hide the bruises Regulus know live beneath her layers of makeup and concealment charms. A necklace of deep purple, olive, and in some places the darkest grey--all perfect impressions of Father’s long fingers--and this is the first time Regulus has seen her without it in years. The one time he was stupid enough to ask after the marks Mother had crumpled to the ground and told him it was all her fault. _I’m a constant disappointment. I gave him worthless sons._ is what she had whispered, and Regulus felt horrible as she wept on his small shoulder.

Father seems relaxed where he’s frozen in the frame. The image of a man in the middle of his life, content and proud of all he’s accomplished. Only Father is far from content, and further yet from proud. Sirius came second to Snape during their Potions N.E.W.T.s and Regulus had feared Sirius would die on the drawing room floor after Father discovered that truth. When Sirius had come home from his First Year at Hogwarts--a dreaded Gryffindor--Father had smashed his face against Sirius’s bedroom wall, calming stating if Sirius enjoyed crimson so much they should re-paint his room. Regulus never inquired anything of Father--was never foolish enough to seek Father’s attention. Even so, there was one night, when he was still a boy of nine, when he happened upon Father in his dim study. An empty bottle of scotch at his side, while he sat in a bleary state--sleeves of his usually pressed shirts rolled up to his elbows--muttering on about nonsense. His grey eyes had lifted, capturing Regulus--assessing him--before Father confided in him. _I envy Sirius’s freedom and his spirit._ Then after a dark chuckle he’d added-- _He will be the downfall of this family._

Sirius is the picture of an arrogant prince. His smile cocky, confident, and full of a vanity the priest warns them against at Sunday Mass. Yet, Regulus knows Sirius is a small, insecure child lurking in the large walls of a seemingly confident adult. Sirius’s mannerisms are all defense; if he thinks he’s too good for something or someone they cannot hurt him. Even while surrounded by friends Sirius wears an invisible force between them; constantly letting them near, but never near enough to scratch the surface of his soul. He leaves that task to Regulus. Allows Regulus to see the fragile truth of his psyche, and opens himself up to Regulus--in ways he will never open up to another--as he melds into Regulus’s skin. Kidding himself that it is Regulus who needs saving, yet they both know that isn’t true. Father thought, and still believes that Sirius is free. Sirius is just as tethered to the curse of this damned name as the rest of them are, and when he reaches for Regulus it is with the desperate desire to cast off that burden.

“It was ruined before it was created,” Regulus repeats the words Sirius spoke earlier. Then with a brittle smile adds, “Just like us.”

Sirius remains silent as his hand reaches to brush across Regulus’s hot, bony hip. His grey eyes watching Regulus through the curl of grey smoke that billows from between Sirius’s lips, around his cigarette, and Regulus thinks _everything is grey._

**Author's Note:**

> Comment here or on [Livejournal](http://sirius-black.livejournal.com/295931.html) for the author to see.


End file.
